


Field and Fountain, Moor and Mountain

by okapi



Series: Many Times, Many Ways (the Christmas fics) [7]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bibleslash, Biblical References, Blow Jobs, Come Marking, Epiphany, Explicit Sexual Content, Hand Jobs, Hitting with a Tree Branch, M/M, Orgasm Delay, Paternal Lestrade, Polyamory, Sherlock is a Brat, Three Kings, Threesome - M/M/M, Virgin Sherlock, Voyeurism, magi, paternal John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-10 20:44:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5600236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three kings walk into an oasis. </p><p>Starring Lestrade as Melchior, John as Caspar, and Sherlock as Balthazar. </p><p>For the <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Works_of_the_Flesh">Works of the Flesh</a> challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The visit of the Magi is Matthew 2:1-12.

The king squinted. His old eyes were deceiving him. In the distance, amidst the never-ending expanse of sand, he thought he saw a patch of green.

An oasis.

He rode on, and, to his astonishment, the vision did not fade into the desert night but rather grew clearer until he could not only see the water, but also smell its clean scent and feel the sharp breeze that blew across its surface.

Water in the desert was nothing short of a miracle, much like the bright star overhead, the star that he had been following for weeks.

He dropped down to the sand and led his mount to drink. The spot was cool and lush, so very inviting to his travel-weary gaze. He immediately decided to rest for the night and at dawn, with body and mind refreshed, craft a plan for locating and re-joining his lost caravan.

He heard a rustling in the greenery; his hand flew to the hilt of his sword.

A man tumbled out of the thick undergrowth and cried out, “You startled me! I believed myself alone in this paradise!”

“As did I,” admitted the king. “From whence have you come, traveller?”

The man pointed to the horizon. “From the East. I was leading a sizable caravan, which is now, somehow, vanished.” The man was shorter than the king and some years younger. His brown hair and beard were flecked with both the gold of the sun and the grey of advancing age. He was solid and strong, and his creased eyes spoke of a life of good humour.

Liking him at once, the king spoke frankly, “We find ourselves in similar circumstance, traveller.”

The man looked about them. “This is a good spot to water one’s beast. I will leave my faithful friend here.” As if on cue, a sturdy specimen of shaggy brown dromedary lumbered into view.

The king reflected on how common it was that the build, colouring, and temperament of a held-animal matched that of its master. Such was the case with both the man and beast before him as well as he and his own gentle, silver-haired mount.

The man gestured behind him. “I arrived at the opposite end of this paradise. A few paces on, there is a cascade that seems crafted by nature for bathing and, farther, a lagoon shaded by cultivars laden with ripe fruit.”

The king sighed. “You were correct to call this place paradise, traveller, for so it appears to this drained and dusty sojourner. Please, let me tend to my camel and then I would bid your company, if you're amenable.”

* * *

Some time later, the two set off together toward the cascade. The man said, “It is plain by your dress and speech that you are of a royal house. What brings so stately a guest to this desert?”

“I am following a star,” said the king.

The man gasped. “That I would find a kindred soul on this strange path! I, too, am following a star!”

The king stared in disbelief. Then he heard the pounding of hooves, and a large shadow fell upon him and his companion. The shadow turned out to be a young man astride his mount; both rider and ridden were of dark skin and even darker countenance.

The young man slid off his mount and marched towards them. He was tall and lean and lithe. His clean-shaven face bore the haughty expression of courtly life and his speech was infused with the melodic phrasing of a people that the king could not readily place amongst his travels.

The young man bowed. “King Melchior, King Caspar, greetings.”

Melchior turned to his companion. “King Caspar?”

The man smiled. “King Melchior!”

Immediately, the two exchanged greetings as befit visiting dignitaries in their respective lands. With formalities concluded, Melchior turned back to the newcomer and asked, “How did you know our names, traveller?”

The young man rolled his eyes and huffed. “Your clothes, your tracks in the sand, your beards, even the way you tie your ropes about your camels,” he gestured to the animals resting by the water’s far edge, “all together these bits and pieces form a composite, which might as well be your names written in the sand.”

“Extraordinary,” said Caspar.

“You think so?” asked young man with what appeared to be genuine surprise.

Caspar nodded.

“That is not what people are want to say,” said the young man.

“What are they want to say?” asked Melchior.

“Go breed with your demon-camel!”

And at that, the black beast in question whinnied and spit. Melchior felt a great wet glob smack his forehead. He turned and saw a second glob had hit Caspar in the face as well. The comedy of the scene proved too much for Melchior, and he laughed.

Caspar laughed, too, and produced a pair of cloths from a heavy pouch slung across his chest. They wiped their faces. Then Melchior spoke.

“You have the advantage, young prince. You know our names, but we are ignorant of yours.”

“Not prince,” said the young man. “My father’s recent demise has changed much, including my title. I am _King_ Balthazar!”

He bowed, and the trio went through the litany of ceremonial greetings once more.

“Are you, like us, following a star?” asked Caspar.

Balthazar snorted. “I know nothing of stars. I concern myself with much more concrete learning. Bits of light, bah!”

Caspar frowned. “You know nothing of stars?”

“Are you deaf as well as scarred?” snapped Balthazar, looking pointedly at Caspar’s shoulder.

Much to Melchior’s silent amusement, Caspar disregarded the jibe and continued his line of questioning. “If you ignore the heavens, then how, pray tell, do you travel? Have you no charts?”

“I have charts,” replied Balthazar indignantly, “but I prefer to use landmarks, earth-bound signs, not those that dance about the firmament.” His hands fluttered; his face twisted in disgust.

“Then you are well and truly lost!” cried Caspar. “For apart from this oasis, there is nothing for the eye to mark but sand.”

Balthazar puffed out his cheeks and folded his arms over his chest. “I am _not_ lost!” he insisted.

Melchior laughed. Balthazar fumed.

“You present as one far from his home, King Balthazar,” remarked Caspar in an even tone.

Melchior admired the attempt to assuage the hot-tempered king but knew it was doomed to fail.

“I reign over a land in the East!” cried Balthazar.

Melchior’s disbelief must have clearly shown on his face for Balthazar met his eyes with a defiant glare. They remained that way until Balthazar blinked and looked away, grumbling, “In the south. Far south, actually. But also east! A bit east. A bit.” His voice faltered. He turned towards his mount and began petting it.

The camel batted its long eyelashes, and, looking over its master’s shoulder, stuck out its long tongue and blew spittle in the direction of Melchior and Caspar.

Melchior shook his head; then he turned towards Caspar, who spoke.

“I would have shown much more deference had I known you to be the great Melchior. You have ruled your people in peace for many years and have earned the respect of those far and wide for your fairness and mercy.”

Melchior smiled. “And I am not ignorant of King Caspar. A warrior in your youth, but now they call you Healer-King for your devotion to the medicinal arts. It is true that in my own kingdom I value justice above all and that my people sleep peacefully under my watchful eye. But I’ve heard said that in the land of King Caspar, the people also enjoy abundant health, leading rich and productive lives well into their twilight years.”

Balthazar interrupted. “What do I care for the living? The sick? The squabbling? I am not king of them. I am King of the Underworld! Solving the riddles that Death lays before me and preserving humans—and the occasional favoured animal—as neither Time nor Nature permits.” He put his hands on his hips and lifted his chin. “I am Riddle-Slayer! I am Embalmer-King!”

“You are clever, sweet-smelling king,” said Melchior, “but you are also rude and brash and no doubt ignorant of more than just stars. You could benefit from our wisdom. Come, let us bathe and eat and rest.”

“And tell tales by light of the crescent moon and the wondrous star that has guided us thus far,” Caspar added.

Melchior nodded.

Balthazar huffed. “My body is mere transport. I require neither meal nor rest. And I certainly have no wish to assault my ears with the idle prattle of two old men!”

Melchior shook his head again.

“How old _are_ you, Riddle-Slayer?” asked Caspar.

“I have passed my twentieth year!” replied Balthazar.

“My twentieth year,” said Caspar, thoughtfully, “I was at war.”

Melchior nodded. “As was I. My second, in fact. And though this handsome young king sees much, my old eyes are not entirely blind. His hands are no doubt as soft as a maiden’s. They tell me that he has known not one day of hardship or suffering in his twenty years. He has most certainly never seen a battlefield. Or held a fallen mate in his arms.”

“My Belstaff is a more agreeable companion than either of you two!” retorted Balthazar. At his name, the camel wound his long neck ‘round his master’s head and nuzzled him.

Caspar sighed. “Come, King Melchior, I am eager to be reborn in these cool waters. Let us take leave of this beautiful, but bristly, sovereign. I wish you a pleasant evening and a swift and safe journey, King Balthazar.”

He nodded politely, Melchior did the same, and the two headed toward the cascade.

Melchior glanced at the water as they passed and in its reflection thought he saw Balthazar staring forlornly after them.

His old eyes, deceiving him again.

* * *

 

As Melchior waded into the water, he felt another set of eyes upon him.

“You move stiffly, King Melchior,” observed Caspar.

“Old age creeping into my bones,” replied Melchior as he bent awkwardly and splashed water about his chest. “Alas, there is no remedy for time, Healer-King.” He strode to the cascade and, leaning back into the sheet of water, allowed the spray to massage his neck and shoulders.

Melchior watched as Caspar laid his heavy pouch on the ground and disrobed.

“On the contrary,” said Caspar. “I have an unguent that, when applied to the body with force, may loosen that which time has bound.”

“I welcome your attentions, Healer-King,” said Melchior. “But if I am to place myself under your care, I would have you address me less formally. Melchior is the name of my throne. Greg is the name that my dear mother whispered in my ear.”

Caspar smiled as he stepped into the water. “And I am John.”

* * *

After bathing, the two reclined by the water’s edge.

John took Greg’s bare leg in his hands and began to rub the strong-scented unguent into the crook of his knee. Greg groaned with relief.

“Healer-King, the praises your people sing are well-justified.”

“Shall I continue?”

“Please,” begged Greg.

John did, working the balm into other joints and muscles, stopping to knead wherever his deft fingers found strain or discomfort.

When John had concluded his efforts, Greg’s body was so relaxed, so at ease, that he required John’s assistance to rise to sitting. He had seen John studying his body with open appreciation and decided to speak boldly,

“I thank you for your ministrations, Healer-King and confess that every part of me, but one, is loosened.” Greg gestured to the hard, throbbing member between his legs. “That one, I fear, is tightened to bursting.”

John laughed and licked his lips. “I have another unguent, one far less pungent, which can aide that particular affliction.”

Greg’s smile widened. Then he leaned back and said, “Once again, I place myself in your capable hands.”

John left and returned with a second earthen jar. He knelt beside Greg and, coating his hand with clear slick, gave Greg’s cock a firm stroke from base to head.

“John.” Greg opened his legs wider and pushed up into John’s touch. “You do an old king an enormous service.”

John’s hand moved up and down until the head of Greg’s cock was leaking generously. “There is nothing enfeebled about this shaft,” he said. “Were that this night a long one, that I might enjoy your nobility deep inside me. Twice over.”

Greg’s laugh faded as he watched John’s arm flex with each delicious pull. Then he closed his eyes, dropped his head back, and moaned out his pleasure.

“Your thick shaft has not escaped my notice, either, Healer-King,” said he hoarsely.

“Hasn’t it?” asked John.

Greg could hear the smile in his voice. “I believe it would tickle the depths of my throat quite nicely.”

John grunted. “Hush, you randy ol’ goat and take your medicine.”

John continued pumping fast and hard, but just as Greg was about to peak, there was a strange noise some distance away. John’s hand did not falter, but he leaned close until his lips brushed Greg’s cheek. “Think he is watching for his enjoyment or his edification?”

Greg smiled and kissed John’s lips. “Perhaps both. Finish me off and let’s ask.”

* * *

As John went about cleaning his hand and Greg’s stomach with a cloth, Greg yelled, “King Balthazar! We are a hospitable pair. Show yourself and be invited to the feast.”

Balthazar appeared, hands clasped in front of him, eyes cast downward. “My given name is Sherlock,” he mumbled.

John and Greg laughed. Sherlock turned abruptly.

“No, no, come back,” cried Greg, reaching his arms out toward Sherlock’s retreating figure. “Come back so that we might bless the son of a poor, yet supremely hopeful, mother.”

John tossed the cloth aside and added, “Poor, hopeful, and assuredly blind to have bestowed so fair a name on so dark a son.”

“Perhaps,” conceded Greg. “But there is no doubt that she was also the loveliest of her land to have birthed one so fine of feature. Come! Wash and join us. There is no malice in our teasing.”

John winked at Greg and called over his shoulder, “Come, Sherlock! There are no kings here, only John and Greg, men as ordinary, brown, and withered as the fruit of the date-palm. Honour us with your extraordinary beauty and your sword-sharp wit and your fragrant charm.”

Sherlock halted. Then, with a dancer’s grace, he leapt atop the nearest rock, divested himself of his turban and tunics, and dove into the still water.


	2. Chapter 2

Greg quickly wiped the sweat from his brow and groaned. “Were my eyes not open, I would swear I was a young bridegroom sheathed in his virgin after the wedding feast.”

John exhaled a ragged breath. “He suckles with the clumsy hunger of a new-born babe, and it is brilliant. So brilliant that its only rival is that wondrous star above.” He rolled his head from side-to-side. “And I confess that this aged body will not bear such brilliance for very long.”

At John’s words, Greg’s smile faded. He slowed his thrusting and looked down at Sherlock, who was stretched between them, taking John’s cock in his mouth and Greg’s cock in his arse.

When Greg’s jumbled thoughts finally coalesced, he shot a glance at John, who met his gaze and blinked in what seemed a herculean effort to clear the lust-fog from his mind.

Greg eased his still-hard cock out of Sherlock and sat back and watched them. He didn’t respond to Sherlock’s grunts, he simply waited until Sherlock had pulled off of John’s cock of his own volition. Then he reached down and wrenched Sherlock’s head back by the hair.

Sherlock yelped and answered the question in Greg’s eyes with an angry retort. “Until now there’s been no one worthy of my brilliance!”

John, still panting and hard, rose to standing. Greg released his grip on Sherlock, and with John’s assistance, got to his feet as well.

Sherlock jumped up. Face flushed, hands clenched in fists at his sides, he looked from Greg to John and shouted,

“I am no child to be coddled! I am a man! A king!”

John took Sherlock’s head in his hands and kissed his lips soundly. Then, he pulled back, saying,

“One day, Sherlock, you will learn that a wise man, a true king, is one who knows when to stand and fight and take what is his…”

Greg closed in beside them and whispered into Sherlock’s skin, “…and when to kneel and pay homage.”

Greg kissed Sherlock’s shoulder. Then he encircled Sherlock and John in his arms, and the three sank back to the ground as one.

* * *

Greg kissed away the tear that threatened to roll down Sherlock’s cheek.

“Shhh, you are the loveliest of brides, Sherlock, worthy of an army of eager bridegrooms. Let these two humble soldiers worship you as your beauty warrants, indeed, as it deserves.”

Sherlock was seated between Greg’s legs, leaning back against Greg’s chest. His head was inclined toward Greg’s lips, which had been dripping sweet, syrupy endearments from the moment that the three had settled together on the sand. He seemed to crave Greg’s praises, for each time that Greg paused, Sherlock would turn his head and kiss Greg’s mouth and mewl plaintively like a milk-starved kitten.

Greg nuzzled at Sherlock’s neck. It had been many years since he had seen anything quite as beautiful as Sherlock’s cock, erect, swollen, slicked, and pulsing with want—at least that what he had thought until he saw John bend and take it in his mouth.

That was beauty.

Twice John had brought Sherlock to the very edge of release and twice he had stopped and waited for Sherlock’s desire to cool before pleasuring him anew.

Sherlock had protested, of course, but Greg had held him fast as he thrashed and flailed and hurled colourful insults at them.

Now he was reduced to quiet pleading.

“Please, please,” Sherlock begged. He had laced the fingers of one hand in Greg’s, holding on with grip so tight it bordered on painful.

Greg did not mind.

Sherlock shifted in Greg’s arms and then whimpered, for while John had been tormenting Sherlock’s cock, Greg had been teasing his hole, and now Greg’s well-slicked finger was deep inside him. It was just one, and Greg had been careful not to brush Sherlock’s gland. He wanted to prolong their love-making, specifically Sherlock’s pleasure, for as long as their collective strength and stamina allowed. He also wanted to remind Sherlock that, despite his white beard, was very much an equal partner with John in this wedding night. And, perhaps a bit selfishly, he wanted to drive this beautiful, spoilt, arrogant king to the brink of madness.

John’s head was still buried between Sherlock’s legs. Greg leaned up to see that he was licking of one of Sherlock’s sacs. He turned his attention to the other and gently held it in his mouth.

Greg groaned and realised that he enjoyed watching John pleasuring Sherlock as much as he enjoyed partaking of the pleasure himself. But he was not content to watch in silence.

“Meet my hand with that filthy mouth of yours, Healer-King,” he said gruffly.

John’s head dipped.

“No, no, no!” Sherlock wailed, but Greg felt him lift his hips, affording John’s mouth easier access.

Greg felt John’s beard brush his hand. “In my younger years, Sherlock, I used to pay handsomely for a beautiful bride such as you to put lips to that sweet, sweet spot. Just like this, and this, and this.” He licked the back of Sherlock’s neck in what he hoped was an approximation of John’s mouth on Sherlock’s perineum. “So great was my thirst that I might have waged war, gambled my fortune, even risked my soul for it. Do you like it, Sherlock?”

Sherlock groaned.

“I said, ‘Do you like it, Sherlock?’” Greg’s tone was harder, and he punctuated his question with a sharp twist of his finger inside Sherlock and a sharp pinch of his teeth on Sherlock’s earlobe.

Sherlock squeaked. “Yes, yes, I like it, I love it, oh, oh, OH!”

Greg’s hand stilled, and John emerged, grinning.

“Have we worshipped sufficiently at this obsidian temple, Greg?”

Greg could see that, despite his light, jesting tone, John was in agony. Neither had touched their own cocks during their pleasuring of Sherlock, and John’s stiff member looked as painfully engorged as Greg’s. Greg took a deep breath and replied as casually as he could,

“A bit more adoration, I think, John. After all, we are but humble supplicants before such magnificence.”

“True.” John crawled up Sherlock’s trembling, sweat-soaked body and flicked a flat nipple with his tongue.

“No, please. Let me come,” whined Sherlock. “I want to come for my, for my,” his voice faltered, “beloved kings.”

John and Greg locked eyes for a moment. Then Greg freed his fingers from Sherlock’s grip and reached down to join John’s hand with his own. Together they gave Sherlock’s cock one hard, tight pull.

Sherlock’s scream pierced the desert night.

* * *

Sherlock sat up and threw off the two cloaks that Greg and John had carefully draped on him.

“I don’t need a bedtime tale, either,” he sneered. “I’m not a child!”

In a flash, Greg saw John’s expression darkened. Gone was the gentle, generous, and good-humoured Healer-King, gone was the careful lover. Here was an angry, short-tempered despot. Or perhaps, a doting father with his patience worn to fraying at the end of the day.

“Hold him,” John ordered.

Sherlock made to rise but Greg grabbed him by the hair, a gesture that he knew would keep Sherlock on his knees.

John returned with a long, thin branch in hand. In anticipation, Greg yanked Sherlock forward until he was on all fours.

WHACK!

Sherlock howled as the stem hit his buttocks, which were so smooth and unblemished that Greg was certain that they’d never before known such harsh treatment.

John growled, “Blush like a bride and you’ll be worshipped….”

WHACK!

“…bray like an ass and you’ll be whipped!”

WHACK! WHACK!

“John.”

John turned his head. His eyes were blown black; his nostrils, flared. The cords of his neck appeared strained to the point of snapping. His chest rose and fell with loud snorts. His neglected cock, like Greg’s, was still-half hard. His arm was poised to strike.

Greg shook his head and said, “Enough. Let’s find our own release.” He looked down at Sherlock, who was a sight. His mouth was twisted in an arrogant snarl, but his eyes were lost and pleading. Greg was not entirely sure what the young king was pleading _for_ , but he trusted his instincts and let go of his head, saying,

“You refuse to be covered in our kindness, Sherlock, but I’ll wager you’ll welcome being covered in our seed.”

Sherlock fell back on his heels. Then he closed his eyes and lifted his chin to them.

John’s eyes widened, and he stared at Sherlock and then at Greg. He dropped the branch.

Moments later, Sherlock’s face, neck, and shoulders were streaked with come. Greg and John fell upon him, rubbing it into his skin, pushing it into his mouth with their thumbs, licking it from his body and face, tasting it on their own lips and each other’s.

At last, John said, “I am spent in every way that a man can be. Let us bathe and eat and rest.”

Sherlock’s eyes were still pinched shut; he whispered, “I shan’t bathe. No bruise nor bite nor brand can mark this skin, and I would have the memory that, for a night, I was the bride of kings.”

The words ignited a tumult of emotions in Greg, but the one that won out was weary resignation in the face of Sherlock’s stubbornness. Suddenly Greg felt very old, old and tired. He pressed a tender kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Then, without looking at Sherlock or John, got to his feet and limped to the water’s edge.

Behind him, he heard them talking in low voices.

“You will bathe. You will eat. And you will pay that man every respect that he deserves.”

“Or what? You’ll kill me? I’d like to see you try. I’m skilled in the ancient art of—“

“I won’t kill you. He won’t kill you. You’re not as clever as you claim if you can’t see that we adore you, but if you continue this way, we will leave you.”

“You’re going to leave me anyway.”

There was a pause.

“Sherlock, I would have you by my side for the rest of my days.”

And Greg was struck by how John’s eloquence reflected what was in his own heart.

“You’re lying.”

“Am I? You’re the clever one. Look. What do you see?”

There was another, longer pause.

“I shan’t bathe.”

“If you want a cuffing, you need only ask.”

Greg turned just in time to see John hoist Sherlock on his shoulder and carry him, squawking and shrieking, towards him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is quoting Numbers 24:17, Psalm 71:10-11 [Psalm 72 in other versions]; Isaiah 60:6; and Canticle of Canticles [also called Song of Songs] 5:10-16 and 8:6. [Douay Version].

Greg pointed to the sky. “I tell you, that star marks a king. I know it.”

“What proof have you?” asked Sherlock.

They were seated by the lagoon, the remnants of their meal about them.

“None, but a feeling in the marrow of my bones. The star, it called to me, day and night, for months. Not from afar, but from the very depths of my being. So sure am I in my belief that in the weeks before my departure, I took the first crown to ever grace my head, a splendid gold piece adorned with scores of gems, to the most skilled smith in my land. I had him refashion it into an exquisite box, which I will present to this king as tribute.”

John nodded. “I have frankincense, the purest, sweetest sample that I have encountered in all my travels. You know it to be a healing sap, but it is also a priestly one, for my feeling, which is as strong as yours, Greg, is that whatever or whomever the star marks must be of the highest and holiest order.”

Sherlock spit a seed onto the sand. “I do not have feelings, but were I to gift something of great value, I would give from my supply of myrrh, the oil that anoints and preserves the dead.”

“Do you think?” asked John, hesitating. “Do you think we are fulfilling the prophecies?”

Greg considered the question, but before he could reply, Sherlock said:

> “’I shall see him, but not now: I shall behold him, but not near. A star shall rise out of Jacob and a sceptre shall spring up from Israel: and shall strike the chiefs of Moab, and shall waste all the children of Seth.’

Or would you prefer,

> ‘The kings of Tharsis and the islands shall offer presents: the kings of the Arabians and of Saba shall bring gifts: And all kings of the earth shall adore him: all nations shall serve him.’

Or perhaps,

> ‘The multitude of camels shall cover thee, the dromedaries of Madian and Epha all they from Saba shall come bringing gold and frankincense: and shewing forth praise to the Lord.’”

Greg stared, and he knew that John must be staring as well.

Sherlock huffed and said, “Stars don’t interest me. Words, however…”

Greg smiled the smile of a proud father.

Sherlock blushed. Then he dug his toes in the sand and said quietly, “Belstaff appreciates a bit of poetry every once and a while.”

Greg looked at John, who was beaming as well. Not proud, exactly. More smitten.

“That is one lucky camel,” John said. Sherlock’s blush deepened.

Greg was sorry to spoil the tender moment by returning to the subject at hand, but while Sherlock, and even John, had many years to set their houses in order, he knew that he had no such luxury.

“If it is a prophecy, then the urgency is all the greater. I must leave at dawn, and no temptation—no matter how sweet—will persuade me to delay or abandon my quest. The star, it calls to me still.”

“I will accompany you,” vowed John. They both looked at Sherlock.

“Follow your star,” he said. “I’ll follow you.”

* * *

Greg woke to a sound. He listened.

Ah. He had expected as much.

His eyes fluttered open and then shut.

Sherlock was on his side, facing Greg, with his head turned away. John was behind Sherlock, leaning over his shoulder. They were kissing. Open-mouthed.

It was a nice sound, soft and wet, and Greg was content to listen.

“John.”

“Stop it. No.”

“Take me.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“You want to. I can feel it. You’re hard. Leaking, too.”

“Shhh. A man doesn’t always have to do what his body or his mind wants him to do.”

“Here,” there was a shuffling and a clinking, “I’m still a bit open, but you can take as long as you like. Make me ready for you. Make me ready to take your cock deep inside me.”

A groan. “No. You’re already going to be hurting tomorrow from, from…I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“I provoked you. On purpose.”

“Doesn’t matter. I hit you in anger. I was wrong. I’m so grateful Greg was there. If he hadn’t stopped me…”

“You wouldn’t have harmed me.”

“I already did. Here. I’ve something different for the, the, marks.” More shuffling and clinking. “Let me put this on you. I’m sorry, Sherlock. Roll over.”

“Is there another way of hitting?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said that you hit me in anger. Is there another way to hit me? Say, if I asked, would you…?”

A long sigh. “Perhaps.”

“It feels good. It doesn’t hurt.”

“You’re lying.”

“It hurts, but it also feels good. Your hands on me.”

More kissing.

“Oh, Sherlock. No, I can’t…”

“Don’t go! Please!”

“Shhh! You’ll wake him.”

“He’s already awake.”

Greg’s eyes flew open, and he met John’s gaze and held it for a long moment. Then he said, “Take him. Gently, slowly, but take him. Make him yours.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit.

John blinked. “Tell me,” he said with a shaky breath. “Tell me how.”

“Tell _us_ ,” said Sherlock, eagerly.

And Greg did.

He told them when to kiss. He told John when to slick Sherlock’s nipple until it glistened. He told Sherlock when to reach back and take hold of John’s neck, and when to grip John’s arse. He told John when to bite Sherlock’s neck, and when to bite harder. He told Sherlock when to raise his leg. He told John precisely how to ready Sherlock’s hole, when to push the head of his cock inside Sherlock, and when to sheath his entire member.

“No,” said Greg when Sherlock reached down between his legs. “Let him.”

John slicked his hand and reached around, stroking Sherlock’s cock as he thrust.

Greg met John’s gaze again. “Now tell him,” he urged.

John hesitated. Greg nodded. Then John closed his eyes and put his lips to Sherlock’s ear.

“I adore you, Sherlock. I want you by my side for all time. I want to spend our days together, learning and slaying riddles, squabbling and waging petty wars against each other. I want to spend our nights, joined, just like this. I may be your king by day, but by night, I shall be your slave. My jewel, my precious, precious stone, for whom I would ransom everything that I possess.”

“Sherlock,” said Greg.

Sherlock closed his eyes and arched his back and spoke,

> “’My beloved is white and ruddy, chose out of thousands.
> 
> His head is as the finest gold: his locks as branches of palm trees, black as a raven.
> 
> His eyes as doves upon brooks of waters, which are washed with milk, and sit beside the plentiful streams.
> 
> His cheeks are as beds of aromatic spices set by the perfumers. His lips are as lilies dropping choice myrrh.
> 
> His hands are turned and as of gold, full of hyacinths. His belly as of ivory, set with sapphires.
> 
> His legs as pillars of marble, that are set upon bases of gold. His form as of Libanus, excellent as the cedars.
> 
> His throat most sweet and he is all lovely: such is my beloved and he is my friend, O ye daughters of Jerusalem.’”

John groaned. So did Greg. The coupling, the words, it was all so achingly beautiful, Greg almost wanted to turn away and remove himself from their intimacy, but then Sherlock opened his eyes and, gazing directly at Greg with arm out-stretched, said,

> “’Put me as a seal upon thy heart, as a seal upon thy arm, for love is strong as death…’”

And then John was coming. And then Sherlock. And then they were both staring at Greg.

“I am an old man, with an old man’s vigour…” said Greg, but they were on him before he could finish the utterance. Then two mouths, two tongues were on that spot, that sweet, sweet spot, that made him so very weak. And so very hard. And then the mouths were moving, one to swallow his cock and one to bury a tongue deep in his arse.

He laid a hand gently on each head as they pleasured him. Then he looked up into the night’s sky and gave thanks to the star above.

* * *

“He is a great king,” whispered Greg.

Sherlock lay between them. His head was pillowed on Greg’s thigh. His feet were tucked under John’s side. His eyes were closed. His chest rose and fell evenly, and with some regularity, a whispered snore erupted from his nose.

“But he could be a good one as well, good and great, a King Solomon, with all his wisdom and splendour. Provided he had the proper instruction and guidance, of course.”

“Does he strike you as one amenable to either?” asked John. “Instruction or guidance?”

“He did say ‘please’ once or twice. His poor, beautiful, blind mother at least taught him that.”

John laughed, then his smile faded. He looked away and bit his lip. “I’m glad I shan’t have to say good-bye to him. At least not yet.”

Greg put his hand over John’s. “Me, too.”

Suddenly, there was a sound far off in the distance.

Sherlock sprang up. “Herod’s men!”

And in that instant, or it seemed to Greg, the spell of the oasis was broken.

All three stood and began to dress.

* * *

“I tell you, King Melchior, I do not like this Herod,” said Caspar as he fitted his pouch about his chest. “He is the sort that would rip an innocent from its mother’s arms and slaughter it just to secure his own power. He is no king; he is a scoundrel; a madman, with a crown and an army.”

“I hold him in no esteem,” said Melchior. “But you cannot deny that this site, however otherworldly in its properties, is located within of his kingdom. If he summons us before him, we must go. We would demand the same of any foreign sovereign traversing our own lands.”

“We can chop off his head!” cried Balthazar.

Melchior and Caspar stared at him. Then Caspar waved his hand, “Get on your beautiful steed, Riddle-Slayer, and leave any head-chopping to your elders.”

“I will tell Belstaff you called him thus. He is quite susceptible to flattery.”

“Is he now?” said Caspar, making a wide-eyed face at Melchior, who laughed.

* * *

Melchior led the trio, following behind King Herod’s messenger. He heard humming.

“Is that a song from your land, King Balthazar?” he asked.

“It is a song from the land of my mind,” said Balthazar. “Music is one of my many talents.”

“Sing for us, then,” said Melchior.

Balthazar’s voice rang out. 

> “ _We three kings of Orient are_ —“

Caspar interrupted. “Wait, wait, _you_ are not of the Orient, _we_ are of the Orient, you’re of the South—“

“First, it’s to the southeast! Some east! A bit east! Second, it wouldn’t be very lyrical to be precise, would it? Lastly, it’s my song and I’ll compose how I wish!”

“I told you that you would be sore.”

“I’m fine! Belstaff is just—whoa, whoa!”

“Belstaff is looking quite regal today, if I do say so myself.”

“Do not listen to him, Belstaff, he’s just trying to—ah, ah, ah!”

“I thought you were composing.”

“I was. Where was I? Okay…

> _We three kings of Orient are;_
> 
> _Bearing gifts we traverse afar,_
> 
> _Field and fountain, moor and mountain…"_

“Wait, wait, what’s a moor?”

“Have they no centres of learning in your kingdom? Do your people live under stones?”

“Ha! You don’t know what it means either! And I’ll have you know that in my kingdom, we have such centres as you can only imagine…”

Greg smiled. He let the sound of their voices fade and kept his sights fixed on the star ahead, for he had an old man’s eyes and it would not do to lose their way.

Not with so much at stake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to the challenge organizers; this was a lot of fun!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Happy New Year!


End file.
